


The Ragged Mists

by TheVineSpeaketh



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Animal Transformation, Curse Breaking, Curses, Intrigue, Legal Drama, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Property Struggle, Protective Legolas, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, The White Gems of Lasgalen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-03-07 22:17:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3185219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVineSpeaketh/pseuds/TheVineSpeaketh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ABANDONED <br/>Bard isn't one to fall into the realm of gossip. He's heard a lot about the Doriath Heir who disappeared into self-isolation after his father died and barred the lands to everyone, especially hunters. He didn't think much of it.</p><p>Of course, when the circumstances are made clear to him, his perspective on the matter changes. There is more to Thranduil's death and Legolas's social introversion than may appear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a random idea that I just decided to roll with. I haven't written a fic off the cuff in a long time (aka without any prior planning whatsoever--a freewrite fanfic, if you will) so I thought I'd give this a try.
> 
> I hope you like it! I will update when the mood strikes me. I've been a little ill lately, so it might be erratic! Sorry in advance if it is.
> 
> I do not own The Hobbit or any characters. I hope you enjoy!

It’s easy to lose oneself in the mist of the morning. As the sun gently rises, still waking up to greet its own day, the world is imbued with a sort of pearly blue glow that seems to come from everywhere, dispersed evenly over the mist like a hazy umbrella covering the sky.

Mornings in the woods near the old Doriath home—the Greenwood, the old Doriath ancestors named it long ago, when they had first gotten it—seemed sacred and meaningful, almost as if waking up to meet them and walking among the foliage and high dark trees was equivalent to being transported into another world far, far away from modern reality. There was a sort of peace to be found there, a tranquility that was greater than what mere meditation could provide, and it could either sharpen the visitor’s awareness to a focused point, or bend it until it broke. In short, the woods were a place of magic, the dawn’s light the echoes of a spell cast millennia ago.

Of course, some saw it not for its magic, but for what prosperity it could bring. On this particular morning, the old woods seemed large enough that Mr. Masters, a local member of the bourgeoisie and a well-known cad, was more than confident he could get away with hunting on the posted property. It was early in the morning when he began traipsing through the woods, grimacing as his boots came into contact with anything other than plain dirt, carrying a gun in both hands and swinging it willy-nilly to scare away any bugs that got the wrong sort of idea. Alfrid, his assistant in all things, followed him, wantonly carrying guns and a bow and arrow, as well as a bit of food and absolutely no experience whatsoever.

Mr. Masters was half a mile into the property and rambling on about something or other that was important to him. “It just doesn’t appeal to me to have to _gut_ the bloody things myself,” he said, grimacing as he took a very large step over a very small patch of mud. “I mean, _I_ was the one who shot it, so _I_ shouldn’t have anything to do with that nasty business.”

“Well,” Alfrid replied, tracking his boots through the mud as he followed after Mr. Masters, who grimaced in distaste as he did so, “it may not be for you, sir, which is just perfectly fine, but a lot of those simpler folk like to gut the things themselves. Drain them in their garages, they do, hanging over a grate in the floor. Make the jerky themselves or what have you.” He looked down at his feet, stopping for a moment and disentangling his long coat from a bramble. “Filthy animals,” he muttered darkly.

Mr. Masters carried on walking without him, ignoring his last comment. “Yes, but it doesn’t appeal to _me_ ,” he continued. He paused, drawing a pensive breath to speak again when he was interrupted by a sudden noise.

He stopped in his loud romp through the forest, his hand immediately flying back to stop Alfrid where he walked, thumping him square in the chest. Alfrid stumbled a little, a gun or two clacking together with the force of him righting himself, but he stayed incredibly still afterward, his bugged eyes looking around in fear. Mr. Masters adopted a face that bespoke knowledge of what he was doing, when in fact he hadn’t the foggiest idea.

Luckily, he didn’t have to wait long for his stupidity to get the best of him, for the noise continued after a brief pause, and it sounded like something was approaching. They stayed still long enough for the beast to appear, wading through the brush as if it belonged there, and by all rights, it did. The creature was lovely, stepping out into the pleasant morning air with purpose in its stride, its fur white as clouds, nearly blending it in with the early morning mist. It was seemingly crowned with a marvelous set of antlers which gave it a look of regality, and its calm eyes evenly surveyed the landscape around it, its head held high and its movements slow and steady. It was truly a magnificent creature.

Mr. Masters saw none of its inherent majesty, instead thinking of how beautiful its pelt would look draped over his shoulders. He held his gun aloft, fumbling with it for a moment before clicking off the safety, his hands gripping the gun awkwardly, and its feel was foreign to his hands. Nevertheless, he lined up his shot, breathing for a moment just to see if it would help steady his aim. He made sure his scope lined up with the animal’s head—you were supposed to shoot their heads, right? Yeah, it seemed right—waiting for the moment where it would turn and look at him so he could peg it between the eyes—

A loud noise belying the sudden warping of air shot right past his ear, and his hand jolted, the trigger set off by his heavy fingers. The shot missed, flying up into the air, and the animal startled, immediately setting off into the woods, disappearing within seconds. Alfrid yelped as another whooshing noise followed shortly after, and this time, Mr. Masters could see the arrow shoot by, nearly invisible despite its inherent size.

Alfrid dropped the guns, turning on his heel and jumping through the underbrush, attempting to flee back to the parking lot where they started this whole ordeal. Mr. Masters leaned down, attempting to pick up his guns and follow simultaneously, when another whoosh sounded close enough to actually disrupt his oily hair from where it lay in lank sheets by his ears. He abandoned his cause, jumping upright almost immediately and hastening after Alfrid, yelling, “Alfrid, wait! Wait for me you worthless cad!” Within a few moments, the two disappeared beyond the mist, and the noise of their departure followed not too long after.

The wood was calm again, almost as if the calamity of Mr. Masters had never been there. Silence had been returned to the wood, and its magic settled over it again, blanketing the still air. From behind a tree, a lone figure emerged into view. Light blonde hair was pulled away from his youthful face in a braid that trailed down his back, his body clad in a simple grey hoodie and dark pants, his hiking boots sturdy in make and dark in color. On his back, his quiver was void of a few arrows, his bow not strung across his shoulder but resting easily in his right hand. In his left, there was an arrow pinched between his forefinger and middle finger, as if waiting to be strung. His intense blue gaze was fixed on whence Mr. Masters came, as if expecting the intruders to return.

He waited, surveying the area for a moment before moving, light feet hardly making a sound on the forest floor, as if the brush moved to give him a path. He collected his arrows from the general vicinity in which Mr. Masters and Alfrid once stood, his nose wrinkling as he stopped and stared at the excessive pile of firearms lying on the forest floor. He made no move to pick any of the guns up.

“I will have to repost the property in places, then,” he murmured to himself, absently nudging at the butt of one of the guns with his boot. It clacked. He quirked a brow. “And call the sheriff to remove these things.” He thought for a moment, slinging his bow over his shoulder. His expression fell into one of somber pensiveness. “He’ll probably advise me to prosecute.” He let out a heavy sigh, rubbing his hand across his brow and lowering his head.

He let the silence of the wood overwhelm him, taking deep breaths of the fresh morning air and listening to the birds distantly chirping, the calmness of the early morning embracing him tenderly. Not long after he had calmed down, he could hear the grass rustling nearby, something moving toward him. He didn’t move. He didn’t have to look to know that the large white stag had returned, walking among the trees once more, moving fearlessly toward him. He didn’t remove his head from his hand, instead just listening and keeping still, relaxing more and more with each breath he took. The stag did not stop in his approach until he was right next to the youth, breathing calmly over the skin of his neck in gentle, noisy huffs, the longer bits of his fur tickling the young man’s skin.

He finally removed his head from his hand and looked up, turning to the animal and quietly reaching a hand from where it rested by his side, pressing gently on the stag’s snout, gaining nothing more than a small nudge of encouragement. Despite the beauty of the moment, the youth did not seem to be appreciative of the experience. He looked at the creature with some kind of longing in his eyes, sad in its nature and consuming in its power.

“Is it a good day for you, then?” he asked, watching the animal with perhaps more scrutiny than was necessary. The only response he seemed to get were the eyes trained on him, not looking away. He looked right back at him because he remembered not feeling able to before, a long time ago.

Shaking himself from his reverie, he let himself have a small smile. “If I had known it would be a good day for you, I would have brought you something,” he said, but even as he spoke, he pulled a small bag from his pocket, tugging apart the plastic edges ziplock and removing a small slice of apple, lovingly cored and evenly sliced. He held it up, palm flat and hand low, and the creature bent down without hesitation and nibbled it off his palm, lips tickling his sensitive skin.

His eyes watched his hand, while his other hand came to rest on the stag’s neck. As it enthusiastically munched on the apple, he spoke. “So is this your way of telling me to hang in there? To prosecute Mr. Masters for trespassing? To just say fuck it and torch the forest and rid myself of all of this?”

The stag continued eating, licking its lips and a few stripes across his palm, chasing the juice. His brows lowered, his lips pursing a bit. “Maybe today is not as good a day as I had hoped, then.”

The stag finished chewing and swallowed, looking at him once again and and nudging slightly at his palm. His heart stung even as he complied, fetching another slice of apple. His eyes pricked with tears as he laid his palm flat, his other hand clenching slightly in the white fur. The creature didn’t notice.

“I miss you,” he murmured almost inaudibly, watching the animal eat from his palm again.

(~~~~)

_Legolas was nineteen years old and about to head off for his second year of college when it had happened._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Edited on 1/25/15, changing a few things and generally fixing up a few ugly bits. I need to stop posting things at 3am and expecting them to be good. XD


	2. Chapter 2

The sun was perched high in the cloudless sky, and there was no barrier to keep it from beating down upon any bare shoulders in sight. The waters of the massive lake were warped into a shimmering mirror by the sunlight, reflecting the sky above and stretching the horizon to a seemingly endless length. A large group of docks lined the shoreline of the lake, and with the waters being so calm and the sky being so clear, the docks were bustling with workers scrambling to get ships launched on voyages at the right time. The air was alive with the loud squeals of gulls and the hustle and bustle of the boatmen working, the stretching and tightening of rope almost drowned out by the occasional yelling of a boatswain and the thud and rumble of barrels rolling down the wooden walkways to the ships.

A man stood in the middle of the dock, having stopped after loading the last wine barrel onto a small cargo ship. His steel grey eyes were cast, not to his feet as they would have been, but up to the sky, pensively caught on the trajectory of the sun. Black hair riddled with chutes of white and grey was pulled away from his face and tied at the back, but the rest of it fell in a dark wave down to his shoulders, which were bare. He bore no sleeves on his shirt, the skin of his arms bare to the sunlight, and his jeans were dark and built for such hard work, his boots thick and steel-toed. Around his waist was a loosely-tied flannel shirt.

He stared at the sky for a few very long moments, squinting as the light hit his eyes more squarely, ignoring the sweat on his brow and his neck. He look was focused, his face caught in an expression of concentration.

“Oi, Bard!” someone called, and the man turned, looking around and finally spotting his friend Bofur standing a little ways down the dock. His hands were cupped around his mouth to project his voice. “You’re going to go blind, man! Stop staring at the sun! Didn’t your mother teach you anything?”

Bard grinned, beginning to walk toward where Bofur stood. “She taught me a great many things,” Bard replied, raising his voice only as much as he needed to convey his message, “including how to measure what time it is based on the sun.”

“Oh, did she now?” Bofur asked, and in a few strides, Bard was standing in front of him. Bofur was slightly shorter than him, with his long hair pulled away from his face in braids and his facial hair—unlike Bard’s—completely untrimmed. He had a magnificent mustache that curled at the ends, and a small beard that rested contently between both sides of his mustache. Despite the heat, he was fully clothed, even going so far as to cover his hands in fingerless gloves. He even wore a ridiculous hat, though he argued that it was for keeping the sun from his eyes. Bard didn’t think so; the hat had no brim on the front, only on the sides, and it was made of a ridiculously thick wool that in no way helped with the heat.

“You Bowpeople are so smart, aren’t you?” he asked, his hands on his hips, but there was a guileless smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye. “You’re all probably born with an innate sense of where the sun rises, as well, and whether or not the moon will be full.”

“No,” Bard replied on a laugh, walking toward the small office perched on the dock to check the time. “We’re all taught the sun rises in the east, Bofur, and I check the calendar for the moon.”

“You only say all this out of modesty just so I don’t feel sorry for myself,” Bofur replied, and Bard laughed, shooting him a grin. He turned back to the office door, deftly flicking it open and treading two steps into the room, putting one hand on the doorframe and leaning far to the right to see the clock mounted high on the wall opposite. It was 2:59. He was right; his shift was over.

“You leaving for the day, then, Bard?” his manager asked, his low, gruff voice carrying despite the noise of labor Bard was letting in through the open door. Bard was unable to see him from where he stood, though he could make out the gentle noise of shuffling of papers in the background, so he was probably seated at his desk and had heard him come in.

“Yes, Bifur,” he replied, tugging the flannel from around his waist and pulling it over his shoulders, not bothering to button it. “I’ve got to go home and meet up with the kids.”

“Take care then, Bard,” he called out, and Bard yelled out his own farewells before stepping back out into the open, closing the door behind him. Taking one last glance around at the shipyard, he began heading down the docks, making his way to the parking lot.

“Oi, Bowman!” a voice called, and Bard looked up at the vessel he was walking along to see Nori, one of his coworkers, beaming at him, one foot resting on the edge of the ship a la Captain Morgan, his elbow resting on his knee. “Headed off home then, are you?”

“That I am, Nori,” he said, turning and beginning to walk away again.

“What’s for dinner tonight, Bard?” Bombur, his manager’s cousin and Bofur’s brother, asked from where he stood in the small food stand he kept running at the docks for the workers.

“It’s Tilda’s night to choose,” Bard called to him, and Bombur nodded in understanding.

“Grilled cheese and tomato soup, then?” he asked, and Bard nodded, causing Bombur to give a hearty laugh. “You’d think the child would grow out of it after eating it every four nights or so!”

“Not _my_ child, Bombur,” Bard replied, and he walked the rest of the way to his truck to the sound of Bombur’s laughter. He unlocked the door with the key, hopping inside and slamming it shut, turning the key in the ignition and immediately blasting the air, rolling the windows down. He pulled away and onto the road, relishing in the feel of the wind streaming in the windows, losing himself in the music he was playing.

Working at the docks wasn’t a horrible job—to the contrary, it paid pretty well for a menial job like that and any money he could rear his children on was money he would gladly take—but the best part of his day was going home to see his children and be with them in the few hours he could.

Tilda, his youngest, was six now, and having acclimated to school as best a little girl can, she had begun to dabble in painting. Every day she’d bring home finger paintings she’d made during recess or art class, and Bard would put them all on the fridge, right along with Bain’s incredible math scores. Bard had never been good at math—he never told his children, but he barely finished high school and never went to college—so he was always completely floored by the consistent A’s that Bain would bring home. Sigrid, his eldest, was graduating high school soon, and she’d already begun applying to colleges. Bard’s heart had clenched painfully in his chest at the thought of sending his child away for any reason, but he knew that she had it in her heart to be a nurse, and he wouldn’t begrudge her dreams just because he didn’t like the thought of her going away.

He grinned to himself, his features softening as he thought of his kids. He was proud of them, and was secretly proud of himself. After their mother had died shortly after Tilda’s first birthday, he’d been afraid that, now that he was alone, he would raise the kids incorrectly, and somehow screw up or let them down. He was afraid they’d grow up unhappy with just a father who woke up at four to go to his job didn’t get home until three: unhappy with a father who had never amounted to much except for a job in manual labor and a few spare hours loaned to the Forest Rangers (from whom he received no paycheck, but rather derived a sort of pleasure from being able to help out where he could and use his bow at the same time).

Thankfully, his children were not only brilliant; they were happy, too, and Bard knew that was all he could really ask for.

After a few more short moments of driving, lost in the world entirely belonging to his thoughts, Bard could see his home. He slowed down on his road, turning into his driveway and coming to a stop. Just as he was taking off his seatbelt, the truck already parked and stopped, the school bus pulled up behind him, coasting to a gentle but noisy stop, the stop signs on the sides blinking as Sigrid, Bain, and Tilda climbed out, coming around the front of the vehicle to cross the street and get home. Bard climbed out of his car, grinning, and Tilda released her brother’s hand to race across the street, jumping into her father’s outstretched arms.

“Da!” she cried, and Bard lifted her up, smiling as she giggled. “You beat us home today!”

“I did,” he replied, setting her down, moving to hug Bain, and then Sigrid. He kissed her temple, ruffling Bain’s hair with his free hand. “How was school today, loves? Let’s get inside; it’s a bit too hot to be standing about today.”

The whole family headed to the front door of their home, Bain holding it open as his family sidled in past him, Tilda babbling about how she had a new boy in her class named Faramir Took, and how she was taking a shine to him.

“He has lovely thumbs, Da,” she chirped happily.

“Does he, now?” Bard asked, turning on the kitchen sink and making sure the water was cool. Sigrid tapped his shoulder, careful not to interrupt Tilda, and he turned to her, noticing she was holding a pitcher. He stepped out of her way, watching as she began laying out the necessities for making lemonade.

“I think he’d make wonderful paintings if he’d give it a try, but he seemed like he wanted to play with clay instead.” Bard set Tilda down, tiptoeing to reach toward the back of the top of the fridge, pulling out a small palette of finger paints and a piece of thick white paper. He handed them to her, smiling.

“Maybe he wants to make pottery for his mother and father,” Bard said, and Tilda looked like she was thinking on it. Without giving him a response, she shot off to the garage to paint.

Bard smiled as he righted himself, looking up at Sigrid, who was sweeping around the kitchen, grabbing as many lemons as she could carry from the fruit basket by the door. “Da, are these from Mr. Baggins’s garden?” she asked, examining the larger than usual lemons. “I’ve never seen lemons this big that weren’t pale and sickly.”

“But of course,” he replied. “He gave them to me a few days ago. He said it was thanks for fixing his fence.” Sigrid smiled, and Bard turned to Bain, who was seated at the kitchen island. “Mr. Baggins was fond of the ringing bell idea you set up, Bain.”

Bain looked up from his homework—math, and Bard resisted the urge to wrinkle his nose at the dreaded subject—and gave a small smile, looking back down without so much as a word. Bard’s brows furrowed, and he looked at Sigrid, who looked just as concerned from where she stood cutting lemons in half.

Bard leaned forward on the counter, resting his weight on his elbows and looking at Bain’s paper. “Not much to report about your school day, then?” Bard asked, pressing himself further into the counter so Sigrid could squeeze past to grab the sugar.

“Nothing really,” Bain replied, erasing something in the margins of his paper. Tilda chose this moment to reappear in the kitchen, her hands already covered in paint and a few smudges of it in her hair and on her cheeks.

“I think Bain’s upset about that girl on the bus,” she said, and Bain’s head shot up from where he was working, immediately glaring daggers at his sister. She didn’t miss a beat, instead turning to her father and saying, “Da, I forgot a cup of water to rinse my hands.”

Bard got out a tupperware bowl and filled it with water, staring at Bain the entire time. “Fill it up again with the hose if you need more water, love,” he said, and Tilda nodded, darting back out into the garage. “So,” he said, crossing his arms where he stood. “There’s a girl on your bus?”

Bain looked at Bard, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t listen to Tilda,” he replied. “There’s no girl. She’s just making up stories.” He turned his glare back down to his homework, but it didn’t fade. He scrubbed at the paper viciously with his eraser.

Bard looked at Bain for another moment before sighing, deciding not to push the matter any further. “Alright,” he said, luckily saved from the ensuing silence by the telephone ringing. He pushed away from the counter, moving into the den and picking up the phone. The screen flashed on, and amid the green glow the caller ID read “RANGER DPT MBL.” His eyes narrowed as he appraised the number. He usually only got a call from the Forest Rangers if he was on shift or on call, and right now, he was neither. Frowning, he picked it up, leaning with his back to the wall. “Bowman residence. Bard.”

“I was hoping you’d be home,” a familiar voice said, and Bard’s perplexed expression only intensified.

“That’s not how you usually greet me when you call, Aragorn,” he replied, staring absentmindedly at the wall opposite. In the background, he could hear Tilda return to the kitchen and ask where he was. “Normally there’s some salutation in there.”

“I usually wouldn’t be calling right now,” Aragorn said, “so we can suspend normalcy for now.”

“Fair point,” Bard said, accentuating the statement with a shrug. “What did you need?”

“I might need a bit of backup where I am,” Aragorn replied, and Bard’s brows shot up.

“What’s the matter? Some hunters giving you trouble?” Bard asked, standing up straight once more.

“It’s a legal matter, mostly,” Aragorn replied, “but there’s a bit of trouble involving posted property and some hunters, yes. It’s getting a bit heated over here, Bard. I’d much rather have someone here with me to help handle it than be alone.”

Bard didn’t like the sound of that. Aragorn usually took to patrolling by himself, only radioing in when he thought it was absolutely important. Calling someone off-duty was not something he commonly did. Bard sensed his urgency, despite the calmness of his tone. “Give me an address and I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

“It’s the old Doriath Estate,” Aragorn replied, and Bard’s expression melted into one of incredulity again.

He stayed silent for a moment, his mouth slightly open and his eyes wide with surprise, before he spoke once more. “Well,” he said.

“Yeah,” Aragorn replied. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Wait,” Bard said, catching Aragorn before he hung up. “Where on the estate are you?”

“The front door,” Aragorn replied, and with that, he hung up.

Bard stared at the phone for all of two seconds before putting it on the hook again, moving back into the kitchen, where Tilda seemed to be having an argument with Sigrid about whether lemons were safe for eating and Bain was flipping to his third page of homework.

“I have to go on a call,” Bard said, and Sigrid looked up at him, something in her expression changing upon sight of his face. Bain, too, looked up from his homework, and Tilda stopped in her tirade about how poisonous lemons were, frowning at her father.

“When will you be home?” she asked, and Bard shrugged, not liking the look of sadness on Tilda’s face. He approached her, leaning low and kissing her forehead. Then, he swept behind Bain and hugged him, dropping a kiss to the crown of his head before approaching Sigrid.

He kissed her cheek and asked her, “If I’m not home in time for dinner, could you make grilled cheese and tomato soup?”

“Of course, Da,” she replied, and he smiled, pressing a hand to her shoulder gently.

“I’ll make you cookie dough when I get back,” he promised, and she laughed.

“I’m watching my figure,” she replied, and he snorted, throwing his coat on his shoulders and pulling his quiver over his head, grabbing his bow.

“Fine,” he replied, “I’ll just make it for your brother and sister.” He smiled as he heard Tilda’s cheer, sliding on his boots and heading out the door.

**(~~~~)**

Bard hadn’t been up the road to the Doriath Estate in a very long time. They had called it an estate naturally because it was large, and it had been big enough to possess a long road leading up to it surrounded by nothing but forests and brush. After certain events had occurred and the land was shut off for good, nobody had any reason to go up the path anymore, and so it had kind of slipped Bard’s mind.

Bard hadn’t been one to fall into the realm of speculation and gossip. He’d heard that the elder Doriath had died two years previous, and that his son had barred himself in their land without so much as a slight bit of warning, but beyond that he was not concerned. He didn’t like to listen to the whispering and the rumors that floated around town, especially the ones that were making their rounds shortly after the events had happened. Bard didn’t like the thought of talking of someone’s business when their back was turned, especially not long after the incidents that sparked them, the wounds of the unfortunate topic of discussion still being fresh and new. It had hurt when his wife had died not long after giving birth to Tilda, and Bard had hardly stomached the rumors that she had died giving birth to her—as if that was anyone’s business but his family’s. He could feel for the young man for wanting to detach himself from that life, especially when there was so much left on his shoulders and left to him.

When the Doriath elder had died, Bard hadn’t felt the need to dig into the young Doriath’s life by snooping through the rumors circulating about him, and that had remained true for the two years that had passed since. That being as it was, he was uncertain about how he felt about receiving this call and being allowed on a property that it felt traitorous to cross onto. Despite being invited, it still felt like trespassing to even consider it.

Nevertheless, he pulled up the road, following the rumbling path with little difficulty, the flatlands gradually being swallowed by forest the further he went along the path. Eventually, he could see the large gates to the property, and he slowed down, coming to a complete stop about ten feet from them and just looking at them. They were high, cast iron, and wrought in vine-like shapes along the edges. The gates arched high up, about eight feet or so, and they were topped with what appeared to be some sort of flower. They were resting on hinges embedded in the brick of two pillars stacked on either side, upon which vines were crawling. Nature had taken her hold upon the place, and it was showing.

Bard got out of his truck, making sure to lock the door behind him, his bow slung across his shoulders in a non-threatening position. He approached the gates, looking upon them. Up close, he could see that rust had begun to claim them, the polished black surfaces giving way to grey, orange and maroon patches of wear. He reached forward, beginning to grasp at the feeble latch whose lock hung free, making to open it and step inside.

He stopped, however, something snapping in the woods not far to his right, and he turned to look, his hand still extended to the gate. From where he stood in direct sunlight, he could make nothing out of the shadows that the thick forest provided, but the hairs on the back of his neck stood up despite the heat of the day. He looked around, attempting

He stayed still for a little bit, looking into the woods and seeing nothing, until the hairs on his neck were no longer standing up, and the eerie feeling that had passed over him—the feeling of being watched—subsided. Once more convinced that he was alone, he turned to the front gate, finally grasping at the latch and flicking it open, pulling the gate and stepping inside.

He could see past the vine-covered gates now, and upon stepping inside, he could see the house itself. It was not so big as many other old mansions Bard had heard of, but it was a mansion nonetheless. From where he was standing he could see a few figures congregated on the porch, one of them with shockingly blonde hair, and another, standing close nearby, unmistakably being Aragorn.

He approached the group, walking as calmly as he could, not certain if Aragorn’s urgency was still warranted. When he grew close enough, he could recognize the two other men who were there standing at the top of the porch stairs with their backs to him as Mr. Masters and his assistant, Alfrid. The young blonde with his back to the door and Aragorn at his side must have been Doriath, then.

They were all having a conversation, and it seemed heated. Bard thought it best to make his presence known.

“Ho, there,” he said amiably, watching as the two men at the stairtop moved slowly to look at him, Mr. Masters greeting him with a smile while Alfrid seemed to sneer in his direction. The young Doriath, however, looked at him, then at Aragorn, who met his gaze. They seemed to have a discussion using only their eyes that lasted all of two seconds before he returned his look to Bard, his keen eyes eating into him, strangely unblinking.

“Ah, Bard,” Mr. Masters said, his grin lingering on his features in a sort of false way that set Bard’s teeth on edge. “Perhaps you can solve our problem for us, Mr. Bowman,” he said in his grandiose way, turning back to the young Doriath, who met his gaze just as quickly as he had met Bard’s. “You see, we were trudging along, completely lost in the wood, when this youth accosted us with arrows.”

“My property is posted very clearly around its perimeter,” he replied firmly, never once removing his gaze from Mr. Masters’s face, even as Mr. Masters cast Bard a glance that bespoke his annoyance. “You were carrying weapons. I clearly saw you aim at a stag that is protected on my property.”

Mr. Masters seemed to ignore that, rolling his eyes and looking at the young Doriath, Alfrid’s gaze locked on him as well, glinting with something unusual. Aragorn subtly inched closer to Doriath. “You could have killed us with that bow of yours,” Mr. Masters said drolly, his eyebrows following his conversation with gestures all of their own. “If you’d been a better shot, I daresay you would have succeeded—”

Doriath’s bow was drawn and pointing at Mr. Masters before he even finished the final word of his sentence. “If I had wanted to kill you, you would be dead.” Mr. Masters and Alfrid jolted backwards, but Aragorn immediately stepped forward and put a hand on the bow. Bard drew his bow from his back, but did not move to string an arrow to it.

“Legolas,” he said, in a quiet, calming way, but Legolas still aimed down the sight, his once blank look suddenly fierce and unimaginably intimidating for one so young.

Legolas stared down his sight, his eyes bright, before he quickly unstrung his arrow, sliding it angrily into the quiver on his back. The look Aragorn was giving him was a sympathetic one, though it was hardened with something that Legolas’s eyes could not bear to meet. Bard recognized that look as one he had cast to Bain in his troublemaking days.

“He’s insane!” Mr. Masters cried, and Aragorn’s look immediately shot to him. Mr. Masters was shaking with fury, one pudgy finger pointing in Legolas’s direction. “His licenses should be suspended and that bow taken from him—”

“Given the circumstances, I will do neither,” Aragon said evenly, and Bard took a small amount of pleasure in watching the imperious look on Mr. Masters’s face fall into one of incredulity. Aragorn carried on, clearly not caring at all about what Mr. Masters thought. “Mr. Doriath is right; his property is clearly posted at all perimeters. You were trespassing on posted property, and that means you must face the consequences. I will talk with Mr. Doriath about his liberal use of weapons”—Legolas, who had picked his head up during the conversation, looked back down at his feet again—“so no such incident will happen again.”

Aragorn took a small notepad from his pocket, methodically opening it and scribbling something inside before tearing out the page and handing it to Mr. Masters, who snatched it from his hand as he eyed Aragorn suspiciously. Aragorn took no note of this.

“You’ll accompany me to the station to sort this out,” Aragorn continued, and Mr. Masters bumbled a moment, attempting to say something. Aragorn turned to Legolas, who met his eyes. “I’ll just have a private word with Mr. Doriath here before we go.”

Mr. Masters pinched his lips and glared for a few moments before harrumphing and moving toward his car, barking to Alfrid to come with him. Alfrid scurried after him, casting the odd look behind him every now and then as he went.

As soon as they were far enough away, Aragorn leaned in low to Legolas. “I’ve been meaning to have words with you, _mellon_ ,” Aragorn said, “and had we met under kinder circumstances, we’d have no doubt had them by now.”

“Please don’t berate me on what I’ve done,” Legolas said, his voice weary. “I understand it was wrong, but it was equally wrong for him to hunt on my property.”

Aragorn smiled softly, resting one hand on Legolas’s shoulder. “I understand you’ve been under a lot of duress lately, so I’m going to cut you some slack.” He leaned in a bit further, and Legolas’s eyes immediately snapped to him, his head still bowed. “But you know not to do this again.” Legolas looked at him a moment before sighing deeply, closing his eyes and nodding. Aragorn’s smile stretched for a moment before he leaned in further and pressed his forehead to Legolas’s. “Good,” he hummed genially, and with one last look at Legolas, he straightened up, turning his attention to Bard.

“I’ve a job for you, if you’re up for it,” he said, and Bard straightened his stance. Legolas looked at him once again, his gaze not quite as penetrating yet still unnerving.

“Since I’m here, I might as well,” Bard replied.

“Considering Mr. Doriath’s concerns about hunters on his property being founded, I’d like you to patrol the grounds and see if you find anything out of the ordinary.” Legolas’s eyes snapped to Aragorn in alarm, but Aragorn kept his gaze on Bard. “Can you do that for me?”

“Certainly,” Bard said, slinging his bow over his back. He looked to Legolas, who was still staring at Aragorn with something akin to panic in his eyes. “Mr. Doriath, I assure you,” he said, and Legolas immediately looked to him, his blonde hair disturbed by his quick movement, “I will not pull my bow for anything but non-compliant intruders on your property.”

Legolas looked at him for a moment before putting his own bow over his shoulder and moving toward the stairs, zipping up his light jacket and tugging on his hair, his hands flicking as he pulled it into a messy braid. “I insist on accompanying you,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument.

Bard opened his mouth to reply when Legolas’s head suddenly turned, and Bard heard the slow crunch of gravel under car tires. He turned, half expecting to see Mr. Masters and Alfrid attempting to make some kind of sneaky getaway, and was instead met with a sleek black car he instantly recognized as one of the town council’s public transport vehicles. Legolas’s jaw tightened, a tic forming as he ground his teeth together. Aragorn came down the porch steps to stand next to Legolas again.

Legolas watched the car keenly as it stopped roughly where Mr. Masters had parked his car, and both the front and side doors opened, two figures stepping out. One of them was a middle-aged man, heavily built and bald, an auburn mustache and beard being the only visible hair he had. The other was a very old man with a long beard as white as his hair, which stood up at odd angles. Upon sight of the other man, Legolas seemed to relax a little, though he was still more than marginally tense.

The pair approached, their features growing clearer as they grew near. The elder had a genial look about him, with a hooked nose that fell over his thin-lipped grin, his eyes wrinkled at the edges with years of mirth. He wore brown trousers and a tweed jacket, looking comfortably elderly and carrying a manila folder in his left hand, his right hand situated in his pocket. The other man looked much meaner, and was very tall—almost taller than Bard, and a lot stronger-looking as well. He wore only a wifebeater under a dress shirt, which hung open and untucked from his black pants, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His arms were crossed and covered in tattoos, and his brows were heavy, his lips pulled into a natural frown.

“Ah, Mr. Doriath,” the elder said, his voice kind even as he seemed winded from his approach. He cast a glance around, even turning to look back at Mr. Masters’s car, before looking back at Legolas and situating him with a smile. “I see you’ve got a lot of visitors today.”

“If you’re here to remind me that I’ve a meeting with the town council tonight,” Legolas said curtly, his tone entirely different from the one he used with Mr. Masters, yet still somewhat unsettling, “I must assure you that I haven’t forgotten.”

“I wouldn’t have dreamed of it,” the man replied, grinning. The other man, meanwhile, harrumphed and flexed his forearms, gripping his arms tightly as if trying to distract himself.

“I only wanted to give you this,” the elder said, handing Legolas the manila folder. Legolas took it, flicking it open and glancing over the papers inside. “It’s the numbers we’ll be going over tonight, and the itinerary for tonight’s proceedings: didn’t want you to come in unprepared.”

Legolas looked up from his perusing the file to give the man a quick glare before looking back down at the pages. The man shuffled, his smile falling and brows furrowing at the sudden blatant hostility.

“I just want you to know,” he said after a moment, and Legolas looked up at him again, eerily still. He paused, his expression faltering, before he continued. “We’re on your side, laddie. This isn’t supposed to be hard, or painful.”

The manila folder closed with a sharp slap, and Legolas’s eyes blazed with cold fury. “You claim to be on my side, Mr. Fundinson, and yet you and yours attempt to steal my home from me. Just as our family heirlooms have been snatched from us by your greed, so too are the last vestiges of my family’s history and honor resigned to your town council’s clutches. A folder full of pages detailing just how you’re going to destroy my lineage doesn’t change anything.”

“You ungrateful little brat,” the other man seethed in a heavy brogue, his arms unfolding and his body moving in between Legolas and Fundinson. Aragorn shifted closer to Legolas, his eyes on the larger man and his body tense. “We drive all the way out to your precious island to deliver you a warning and this is the thanks we get? We aren’t even supposed to _be_ here—Thorin would have our heads if he found out we were helping the likes of _you_ , you little shit.”

“Then why did you come here at all?” Legolas asked, eyes narrowing as he stared up at the larger man. “You were just fine with letting my father fall into your hands without offering him a modicum of help. Why are you suddenly so keen on helping me?” He looked at Fundinson again, the old man’s expression falling into one of sadness. “You don’t regret what happened to my father, so why did you come here to help me?”

The silence that ensued was painful and short, and Bard did not want to be there. Legolas’s smooth face then sported a look of anger, not unlike the one he wore when he notched his bow and aimed between Mr. Masters’s eyes. “Is it because I am young and impressionable, and therefore easy to sway in your favor if you cull me there using petty itineraries and feeble warnings? Or is it perhaps because you pity me, because soon I will be homeless and without any living proof that the life I had with my father was real?”

Fundinson’s mouth was open on what seemed like a silent cry, his head shaking minutely, and Bard took pity on the old man, almost reaching out to comfort him were it not for the burly man standing guard over him. Legolas’s tone darkened, his tirade seeming to come to a crescendo, and though his voice remained steady, there were tears in his eyes. “Well I say this: your pity is unwanted, as is your itinerary.” He threw the envelope in their direction, the papers scattering to the wind, and Fundinson winced, the bigger man shielding his face before turning a murderous glare to Legolas. “You had no qualms attempting to steal this land from my father, so you should have no problems wrenching it from the hands of his child.” He stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, before narrowing his eyes once more. “Now leave.”

The bigger man made to move away, but Fundinson moved forward, and Legolas glared at him. “Legolas,” Fundinson pleaded, but the bigger man grasped at him gently with a large hand.

“Leave him, Balin,” he said, glaring at Legolas, who glared defiantly back. “He’s not worth your time.” Balin stayed very still, still looking at Legolas, who did not look back. Then, the two slowly turned and made their way back to the car.

Legolas watched as they got in, buckling up and starting the ignition, and he watched as they pulled out of the drive and were beyond the gates. Then, Legolas turned and ran.

Bard turned, Aragorn turning in time with him, and they spotted Legolas, who was already nearing the edge of the woods. “Shit,” Aragorn cursed, making to move but suddenly stopping, turning to look at Mr. Masters sitting impatiently in his car. He bit the inside of his cheek, then turned to Bard. “Follow him, and make sure he doesn’t get hurt,” he said, and Bard nodded, sprinting toward the woods as Aragorn moved back toward Mr. Masters’s car reluctantly.

Bard was no more than a third of the way across the green estate grounds when he saw Legolas’s form disappear into the woods, his olive green jacket and grey pants blending him in almost immediately. Nevertheless, Bard continued forward, finally breaking through the trees and entering the woods. He followed the sounds of rustling leaves, rolling stones, and snapping branches, keeping his pace as best he could in the unfamiliar territory. He was doing well, keeping up with the sounds and never seeming to lose distance, when he suddenly stopped and realized that he couldn’t hear them anymore.

He looked around, the woods almost entirely silent save for the gentle twittering of birds in the treetops, the sticky air of summer clinging to his sweaty skin, and he sighed, wiping his hand on the back of his forearm before looking down to the ground, attempting to see if he could find any suitable tracks to follow.

He could find only the barest traces of what someone would call tracks—a bit of clumped mud here, a few overturned stones there—but it was all he could have hoped for. It would have been foolish to call out for Legolas while he was upset and angry, and so the best way to find him would be without reminding him that he was being looked for or scaring him off. He started off in the supposed direction the tracks were leading him, keeping himself focused as he searched for other signs of human presence in the wood.

For a while, he followed the arbitrary signs, moving sometimes in irregular directions, and as time went by and there was still no sign of Legolas, Bard guessed that he was probably horribly incorrect. He was certain he was right when he came to a clearing and, after doing a cursory search for anything out of the ordinary, could find absolutely nothing. It was as if Legolas had vanished or taken flight, gone into the air.

Bard sighed, leaning back against a tree and looking around, attempting to steady his breath. There was little he could do now but either attempt to find his way back, or to wander the woods aimlessly, hoping he found Legolas before it grew dark.

Giving another sigh, he straightened himself out, groaning as his feet protested under his weight, and he looked around. Aragorn no doubt cared for Legolas; that much was certain from the way he protected him silently, getting in between him and anything that caused him discomfort or harm. He would have wanted Legolas to be found, and therefore Bard would not leave the woods until he knew where Legolas was.

He limbered up, glancing around. Birdsong was still filling the air, and above him, the sky was growing pink with the encroaching sunset. He looked around him once again, gazing straight ahead of himself into the woods. Then, he began to move again.

(~~~~)

_Legolas had become acquainted to the woods through his own love for them when he was very young, and had journeyed through them even when he’d been told to stay inside because it was too dangerous. He broke the rules often, and as such, knew the woods well, and when he had gotten older, he had begun to walk among the trees with his father, talking about everything and anything, bonding in a way they hadn’t since his mother had passed away._

_He always admired the way his father disappeared into the trees like he was one of their own, the way he smiled to every flower and pressed a loving palm to everything he could touch. His eyes glowed like the dawn on the dew, and the Legolas could tell that, despite his trepidations, his father loved the woods as much as he did. Their walks were a companionable sharing of their mutual love for the wonders of nature, and Legolas held them close to his heart, right where he kept the memories of combing his mother’s hair before she went to bed, and the last time he saw his grandfather before he died, smiling and reading an old novel by the fire as Legolas attempted to read it over his shoulder._

_In their many quiet moments spent together in the woods, Thranduil and Legolas had come across an old, pearly white stag with long antlers and a regal bearing. He approached Thranduil easily, eating oats from his proffered hand, and Thranduil had introduced him as Pen-Adar, imploring Legolas to touch him. Legolas loved Pen-Adar from first sight, seeing something familiar in the way the old stag’s eyes regarded him, looking at him as if he were something precious. They visited Pen-Adar whenever they crossed paths, opting to let him run free on their lands with their blessing. It was better for Pen-Adar to live free, Thranduil would say, than to live in a stable somewhere, and Legolas agreed wholeheartedly._

_The woods became his happiest place, where his most cherished memories lay thick in the underbrush on the ground and caught on the branches of the canopy high above. Never once had he believed that he’d ever be summoned into the woods with his father on anything but a pleasant stroll, but when Thranduil had awoken him on one particularly moonlit night, it had been with a frantic hand and wide eyes, a jacket and shoes hastily thrown on. He looked sick and pale, and begged Legolas to go into the woods with him to find Pen-Adar. Something, he had said, was terribly wrong._

_Legolas hadn’t needed much convincing to go with him, and with a torch to each of them, they scanned the woods, whistling low in a familiar way Pen-Adar would hear, but as much as they tried, they could not coax him to come to them. Thranduil moved with such little grace that Legolas had been genuinely frightened, watching as his father violently overturned plants in his path, moving around the woods with abandon and flinching at every sound._

_Legolas had split away from him slightly, keeping his torchlight in view, and was surveying the area when he brushed apart some branches and saw him. Lying on the ground, cold and motionless, was Pen-Adar. Patches of his fur were matted with blood._

_Thranduil had tripped in his haste to move to his son’s side when he was called, and he froze when he saw Pen-Adar, slowly moving forward into the light from Legolas’s flashlight and kneeling low, pressing his hand to Pen-Adar’s neck. It came away bloody, and Thranduil was very still for a moment before he turned to his son, tears in his wide eyes and fear pungent on his every breath._

_“Ada?” Legolas asked, unease, sadness, and unnamable terror rising in him at the look in his father’s eyes._

_“Ion-nin,” he replied, his voice wavering as he stared up at Legolas, “there is something I have to tell you about our family.”_

_That was over three years ago._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is taking so long. Lately, I've suffered from a loss, so writing has been _incredibly_ difficult. 
> 
> I've had this sitting in my hard drive for a while now, but I didn't think it was a complete chapter, so I was trying to finish it. Now that I look at it, this part is a suitable chapter all by itself, so I'm going ahead and publishing it and revising my next bit. I'll come back and edit it when I feel a bit better. Not that you wanted to know the less glamorous part of the art of writing... XD
> 
> Pro Tip: Don't automatically assume your writer has any idea what the fuck they are doing, because I certainly don't have a shred of a clue


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These next two chapters will be posted in a bundle, as an apology for taking so long and as a thank you to everyone who's taken the time to read, leave kudos, and take interest in the story. You're all very lovely, and I thank you so very much!

_Thwap. Thwap._

Thorin grumbled, raising a hand from the paper he was holding to rub at his temples. He knew it was a bad idea to try to get work done at this hour, especially since things usually tended to get noisy the closer it got to closing.

_Thwap. Th-WAP._

Thorin looked up from the papers he was reading, watching the office carefully with narrowed eyes. This time, when the paper airplane soared out one door, through the hallway, and into the office adjacent to it, he didn’t miss it.

He set down the proposal he was reading methodically, smoothing it on his desktop with his hands before he stood up from his seat, pushing his chair out behind him with as little noise as he could possibly make. Leaning up on his toes, he crept around his desk and into the hallway outside his office, walking silently to the two doors, standing just out of sight, and waiting.

The airplane passed him twice more and met no obstacle. On the third attempted flight, he reached out and snatched it from the air.

“Jesus Christ!” cried a voice from the office to his left, and the office to his right was full of thudding and cluttering sounds that no doubt denoted someone tumbling out of a precariously balanced office chair.

“Serves you right,” he called, leaning on the doorway to the office on the right. “What kind of Durin slacks off just because it’s getting close to five o’clock?”

“This Durin does,” his youngest nephew Kíli replied, and his head of unruly brown hair appeared just above his desk, his arms folding on its surface and his chin resting on his arms. “It slows down to a complete _crawl_ once it hits four-thirty. You _know_ this; you’ve been working here for thirty years.”

Thorin wrinkled his nose. “Thirty years? Just how old do you think I am?” he asked, indignant. Then, in a lower voice, he added, “It’s twenty-eight years, thank you kindly.”

“Our point exactly,” his other nephew Fíli called from behind him, and Thorin barely turned to face him before he slipped past Thorin and into his brother’s office, sitting on his desk and giving Thorin a look. His hair was more neatly plaited behind his back, his suit less rumpled (probably having to do with not falling out of a chair), but, like his brother, he was liberal with the sass.

“You’ve been working here since time immemorial,” he continued, and Thorin shot Kíli a dangerous glare when he heard him snicker, “and you neglected to warn us that municipal work is not as glamorous as you made it out to be when you waxed poetic about it in an attempt to hire us.”

Thorin pursed his lips. “You took the jobs.”

Kíli threw his arms out on his desk in front of him. “Because you said they’d be _great_ ,” he replied. “I’ve since learned that you can’t put a label on your products that says something that isn’t true about it.” He cocked his head. “I’ve also learned you can sue for that.”

Thorin groaned, rubbing his temples again and closing his eyes. “Why did you have to inherit your mother’s mouth? Couldn’t you have just done without that?”

“If we hadn’t inherited it from the lady herself,” Fíli replied, “chances are, we would’ve probably developed it on our own.”

Thorin opened his mouth to reply, when the door to the hallway opened and shut slowly. “Mr. Durin?” a soft voice called, and Fíli and Kíli immediately began snickering. Thorin glared at them before whirling around and facing their guest, which they all identified correctly as Bilbo Baggins.

“Mr. Baggins,” he said, his voice coming out rougher than he intended, giving the man a quick once-over that snagged on his chestnut curls and cheerful smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I came bearing gifts,” Bilbo replied, holding up a woven basket with a cloth draped over it, the contents within smelling heavenly even from where Thorin was standing. “I just wanted to say thank you for all the help you’ve been to me lately. I don’t know what those Sackville-Bagginses would’ve done with my house had you not intervened.” He gave a jovial grin, then glanced past Thorin and into the office. “Hello Fíli, Kíli. Thank you for all your help as well.”

The boys grinned and bowed simultaneously. “Hello, Mr. Baggins.” They straightened, and Kíli said, “Don’t worry about anything. It’s the least we could’ve done for you, given the circumstances.”

Fíli nodded sagely. “Truly,” he replied, a small smile on his face.

Bilbo’s smile grew warmer. “Thank you.”

“Besides,” Kíli continued, and Thorin could sense something brewing, even without having to look behind him. “It’s not as if it was a hardship to help you out. You’re so kind and considerate to everybody, and it’s only fair that we’re the same to you.”

“And you’re terribly thoughtful,” Fíli added, “and sincere. Surely you deserve the help more than anyone else.” Thorin could feel the second Fíli turned to him. “Right, Uncle?”

He grit his teeth, glaring at the boys, who only smiled innocently back at him, and he swore to himself that he would never let them leave the office early ever again.

“Of course,” he said, his reply sounding dark even to his own ears, and he relished in the small tinge of fear that broke into their smiles. When he turned back to Bilbo, however, Bilbo was no longer smiling, and a blush had risen into his cheeks.

“I’ll just, uh,” he stammered, wringing the basket’s handle with both hands. “I’ll just leave this here with you, then.” He shuffled on his feet for a moment, then seemed to remember what he was doing. “Right. You take that,” he said, putting the basket in Thorin’s hands, “and I’ll just…” And, with nothing more than a quick “good evening” over his shoulder, he disappeared down the hall and out the door.

As soon as the door closed, Thorin whirled on his nephews, who were grinning from ear to ear. “I swear to you,” he said murderously, his voice low and his eyes narrowed, “if you ever make him feel uncomfortable again, I’m going to make you stay at the office with me until I leave every night.” His nephews’ faces fell, and he took a step forward, leaning in low and whispering, “ _For the rest of your lives._ ”

Fíli and Kíli simply stared at him, their eyes going wide with fear, before nodding quickly. Thorin straightened his posture, a dark smile on his face.

It was then that the door burst open, and in a flurry of movement, Balin strode inside, his head down and his pace set, Dwalin following on his heels.

“I still don’t understand why you’re so set on helping the whelp,” Dwalin said, his tone argumentative, and his expression was stormy, his brows furrowed and lips pulled downward. “He’s nothing but a brat, spoiled by his father and grandfather. He doesn’t deserve half of what he’s got—”

Balin turned, jabbing a finger into Dwalin’s chest. “I will not hear another word from _you_ about spoiled brats, Dwalin. After how you acted today, I’m appalled you would exercise such hypocrisy.”

Dwalin glared murder at his brother. He jabbed his thumb back in the direction of the door. “After how _I_ acted? You’re witness to that whole episode back there and you think what _I_ said was deplorable? Did you not _see_ what he did to you back there? Did you not _hear_ what he said? He’s a bloody lost cause, Balin, and you keep stooping to pick up after him when all he’s done is grind your nose to the dust. It’s killing me to watch you exhaust yourself attempting to look after a spineless, pigheaded, selfish—”

“Enough!” Balin cried, anger taking over his otherwise peaceful features. “For God’s sake, you talk as if you’re about to go to war with him, not negotiate. I won’t hear another word of this blatant negativity toward him; he’s done naught to earn it.”

Dwalin’s look of incredulity was only there for a nanosecond before his anger replaced it again. “He’s done _naught to earn it_ —?”

“Yes, naught!” Balin snapped in reply. “All he’s done is bark at those who are stealing his home, his history, and his very _life_ from him; that’s hardly enough to constitute your rage. And after all, when it comes down to it, what are we doing but just that? Are we not taking his life away from him and giving him little power to stop it? Are we not wresting his happiness from him with little regard to what he’ll have left over?” He took a step closer into Balin’s personal space, tilting his head back to look up at him. “Do we not deserve his anger? Do we not deserve his scorn? Am I the only one in this whole office who is _ashamed_ of making a misery of this boy’s life?”

The room descended into silence, the air still tense around Balin and Dwalin, and they didn’t break eye contact.

Thorin, however, stepped forward, placing a hand on Dwalin’s shoulder. Dwalin looked toward him, and they exchanged a glance heavy with meaning before Dwalin stepped back, huffing a short breath and wandering toward Thorin’s office. Thorin stepped into the space he once occupied, putting his hands on Balin’s shoulders, looking Balin in the eye. He seemed worn down, his eyes full of sadness, his shoulders slumped in misery.

“We’re running low on funds, Balin,” Thorin said, though his voice was not unkind. “What are we supposed to do, not attempt to remedy this? Run ourselves into the ground? This isn’t just our own families we’re looking after, it’s the whole _town_. It’s not that I don’t feel remorse, Balin; it’s not as if I don’t know what has happened to them since our first seizure of their property. But we had to call in all of our debts on this one, not just theirs, and nobody, no matter what family they are or how alone they may be, is above that.”

Silence once again held its court over them, and Balin looked him in the eye for a few more seconds before he sighed, looking down at his feet. “I know that,” Balin said quietly, his voice low and full of reluctant acceptance. “I just wish there was something more we could do for the lad.”

“We are doing what we can for the town,” Thorin replied, and Balin looked up at him, clearly not accepting that as an answer. Thorin sighed, removing his hands from Balin and letting them hang at his sides. “You shouldn’t punish yourself for this, Balin. No matter what we are doing, it is for the good of everyone. Sacrifices must be made. It is not your burden to bear.”

Thorin glanced over his shoulder, tilting slightly. “It’s almost five o’clock. We should start getting everything together for tonight’s proceedings.” He sent a glance toward his nephews, who began moving, gathering certain papers and opening filing cabinets, shuffling around and getting ready as if preparing for a war. Thorin looked to Balin, giving a slightly cheerful grin. “Can I get you anything? A coffee, perhaps?”

“I’m fine,” Balin said, and Thorin nodded, moving off toward his desk to finalize some preparations.

Kíli continued pawing through his filing cabinet, looking up for a second to peer over at Fíli’s office when he noticed Balin still standing in the hallways between their offices, his head downcast and his eyes closed. Kíli’s brows pulled together, and he gently nudged at his brother, who was preparing some paper for notarizing. Fíli looked at his brother, then followed his gaze, his own face forming an expression of sadness.

They watched in the few sullen moments when Balin simply stood there, a statue in the middle of their bustling lives. Then, Balin looked up and moved to his office, his expression carefully blank. Fíli and Kíli exchanged a sad glance between themselves before getting back to their work, their hands slower and heads more muddled with thoughts than they were before.

(~~~~)

“Ada?”

His chest heaving, Legolas stood in the middle of the clearing and waited. He’d run for what had felt like eternity, abandoning the world and winding deeper into the forest as the sky grew darker with impending sunset, only stopping when his legs could handle no more. Now, standing amid the trees he had grown to love, his hands shook, his fingers gripping tightly onto his bow. Around him, the world and all of the life it fostered continued moving, every sound catching his attention, but he remained very still, his breathing coming in short, heavy breaths.

“Ada, please,” he whispered, tears gathering in his eyes and his head cast downward. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, his features screwed tightly in pain. “Please, I need you.”

The forest was still, the silence as sharp as sudden sound. Legolas looked around, his eyes wide and desperate, looking as lost and helpless as a small child. After a few moments, he dropped his bow, which clattered to the ground, and crumbled under the weight of his sorrow, falling to his knees and pressing his hands to his face, sobbing quietly. The light of the sky above was fading, and with the encroaching night approaching swiftly, he blended into the earth, looking like a sapling with hair spun from spiders’ web.

As Legolas cried, a white stag approached from behind, breaking through the trees slowly and cautiously. Upon sight of Legolas, though, the stag moved quickly toward him, moaning gently and coming around to the front of Legolas, leaning low and nudging him with his snout.

Legolas did not hesitate to reach up quickly, his eyes still shut against his tears, and he clung to the animal, pressing his face into its neck. The stag pressed itself more closely to him, moaning low in its throat.

“You’re here,” Legolas breathed, his voice thick with crying and muffled by fur. “Oh, Ada, I don’t know what to do anymore.”

He opened his eyes, leaning away from the creature enough to see its face, his hands still fisted in the fur of its neck. The bright blue eyes that stared back at him were more worried than ever he had seen, and he let out a soft sob. The stag closed its eyes and pressed its forehead to his, and he closed his eyes in turn.

“I think I’m going to lose you, Ada,” he whispered in the air between them, and when he opened his eyes, the stag was already looking at him. It blinked slowly, watching him evenly, and it made no sudden moves, save for a slow, meditated nod. Realization dawned on Legolas like a long forgotten memory, his eyes growing wide and his whole body going still, his crying even pausing with little difficulty.

“You knew,” he whispered, his eyebrows quirking just slightly, and the stag gave another nod. Legolas’s face slowly crumpled into one of sorrow again, but he made no move toward the stag, instead hanging his head low, his hands still buried in its fur.

“No,” Legolas said, his voice soft. “I’ve been fighting too long and too hard to lose you this way, Ada.” He looked up again, stroking a hand along the stag’s cheek, looking into its eyes. It stared patiently back. “You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve the fate that awaits you, nor did Aduadar.” He looked down again, staring at the grass at his knees. “And nor do I.”

The stag moaned gently at that, pressing into him, forcing Legolas to lean slightly back as the stag grew close enough that he could feel the hair of its chest rustling against his hoodie. Legolas wrapped his arms around its neck, his tears soaking into the tendrils of its hair. He stared up at the sky, his expression muted. “At least we will die in the woods we love, Ada,” he murmured quietly, and the stag moaned again. He closed his eyes, breathing evenly and deeply.

For a while, they remained there, unmoving, and it seemed as though they would stay there forever, two forces that would withstand anything to remain as they were, invulnerable to time and all of its effects.

A quiet, irregular rustling broke their reverie, and Legolas and the stag looked up to see a form moving through the woods. It froze for a moment, looking at them, before moving decidedly in their direction. “Legolas,” it called, and he knew from the voice that it could only be Bard.

“Bard,” he said quietly in reply, but the stag huffed an angry breath, standing tall and moving to stand between them, watching Bard with penetrating eyes, its chin held high. Bard stopped in his tracks, looking back at the creature, casting a cursory glance at Legolas before looking back at it.

Legolas looked up at the stag, nudging gently at its shoulder blade with his hand. “Ada, relax,” he said, and the stag turned to look at him, its eyes narrowing. “It’s only Bard. He’s one of the Rangers. Aragorn sent him after me.” The stag blinked once, its resolve unmoving. Legolas heaved a tired sigh. “He means me no harm, Ada.”

The stag looked at him for a few moments more, then looked at Bard again. After a moment in which neither moved, the stag turned, spinning slightly in a circle before folding its legs neatly under itself and lying down, its body pressing into Legolas’s. Legolas absently let a hand smooth over its back, adjusting a few stray hairs as he stretched out his legs.

Bard watched the scene before him, his hands absently slinging his bow over his back. The stag watched him with no less of a threatening look in its eye, but it seemed less prickled and more wary. “What’s going on?” he asked quietly, making no move toward them.

Legolas looked up at him, and it suddenly struck Bard just how young he really was. His face was still devoid of marks, but his eyes, despite the small number of years behind them, were aged, and regarded him with a look of resignation, which fit his features poorly. “Ada,” he murmured, gesturing to Bard with his free hand, “this is Bard. Bard,” he continued, his hand falling back to his side, his eyes looking back to Bard, “this is my father, Thranduil.”

Bard was still, but his eyes grew wide. “Your father?” he asked, his voice quieter.

Legolas nodded, laying his head on his father’s back. “There is something you should know about our family.”


	4. The White Gems of Lasgalen

_Their family tree was one that was said to extend back to the dawn of the modern age, though that was often disputed by families in opposition to their own—the Durins, for example—and those of the more scholarly vein. To the Doriaths, that was neither here nor there; they knew in their hearts that their family stretched on through the centuries, their bloodline more secure in its past than in its uncertain future._

_The Doriaths, being a long-lived family that celebrated many immaculate successes over the generations, had accumulated a great many treasures in their time, from the Doriath Mansion which sat in the Greenwood, to the assorted jewels and gems that are more commonly associated with the word. Among those gems and jewels were those of Lasgalen._

_Long, long ago, when the Doriath ancestors had first found the Greenwood, they had begun plundering it for riches, as they were in the throes of a great endeavor to expand their wealth and their reach. The Doriath at the time was the owner of a rather large piece of industry that was indisputably powerful: jewels and gems were their trade at the time, and so they scoured for any mines they could find. The Greenwood had, at the time, been an easy buy from a couple who had lived there, and after securing their future in the form of payment, the Doriath elder had sent in people to comb over the forest and decide whether anything of worth was there._

_It had been a gamble that hadn’t paid off; there were no gems hidden in the rocks of the forest, and the Doriath elder had gone there himself to be certain. It was then, in his desperation, that he found them._

_They had glowed like starlight under the noonday sun, bright as rebirth itself, as the beginning of time and space, when all was aglow with a big bang and creation was happening from absolute nothingness. The finding of the gems held a similar fortune for the Doriaths; immediately they laid claim to the land for private use, building their home upon the grounds and declaring the land sacred. For, unbeknownst to others, who let them have their way, the gems had called unto the Doriaths with such intensity that they could do naught but listen. They built their home upon this land, walled it off to all outsiders, and watched as nature reclaimed herself and all manner of creatures came to their sanctuary; and where they found fortune, they also found inner peace and sanctity._

_The Greenwood—Lasgalen in their mother tongue—was the crown of their accomplishments. They made a comfortable home and life there, and for a while, all was good and plenty._

_But thieves were not unknown in that time, and one night, while they were asleep, the Doriaths were robbed, and the Gems taken, along with other assorted treasures they possessed. For five days, they searched, and the authorities were growing closer and closer to the thieves with every day that went by. Recovering the Gems was a certainty._

_On the fifth night, however, the elder Doriath began to change._

_The Gems had, within them, an ancient magic that had bound itself to the Doriath family upon discovery: an ancient magic that promised them communion with the natural world and shelter and safety on their own land, freedom from harm unless absolute evil acted upon them._

_In return, though, the gems took their wealth of power from the elder Doriath, and so, if they were separated from the safety of the Doriath family, the elder Doriath would change, leaving him as only a part of nature itself. The woods would just become woods, and the man would become less than a man._

_The Gems were recovered and kept with the utmost safety, and through every windfall and struggle the Doriath family held them close, if nothing else._

_The modern world was unkind toward the Doriaths. Their enterprises sunk into memory, and after everything else was gone, all that was left were the Greenwood and the Gems. A long battle ensued, during which Oropher, the Doriath elder and keeper of the secret of the Gems, fought to settle a debt in which the Gems were considered payment. Oropher was unsuccessful, and his son, Thranduil, watched in horror as his father succumbed to their curse a week later. Thranduil fought for two years to re-secure the Gems and bring his father back, to no avail. He was shot by hunters and killed before Thranduil had the chance to restore him._

_Thranduil, in a panic, told his son Legolas everything he needed to know about the Doriaths, everything he wished he never had to tell him—the curse, the unfortunate consequences—and felt a sudden terror at the realization that his son was going to be left alone to fight. There would be days where he could come to the Greenwood, and Thranduil would meet him and comfort him there—but some days would be better than others. Those were the days Thranduil feared the most for his child._

_Legolas accepted all of this with a strong heart, and almost didn’t believe it, until five days later._

_Five days of his father withering away, worrying himself into a panic and trying and failing to strike some sort of bargain with the town council, trying and failing to recover their family heirloom: those five days ended in catastrophe._

_Legolas had awoken to the sound of a great clatter in the house, as though someone had broken in. The noise was consistent, glass shattering and table legs snapping, a low moaning noise filtering through the house as the clamor continued. Fearing that his father had gotten into a brawl with the thief, Legolas shot from bed and followed the noise to the study—_

_—only to discover that his father was no longer there. An animal with a pure white pelt and glittering blue eyes was thrashing about, breaking all it could in its attempt to be free of the house. A look of pure terror was on its face, and Legolas endeavored to get the animal out. He freed it from the house, watching it clatter unbecomingly on the porch before dashing off into the woods, disappearing from sight._

_Legolas searched the house, but there was no sign of his father. In the study, on the floor, his nightclothes lay in tatters. Legolas looked at the room, at the final sign of his father being with him, drinking in the last traces of his human comfort, before leaving the study, locking the door behind him. He fell asleep that night in his father’s bed._

_After that night, Legolas picked up the proceedings, and fought with his father’s fervor to get the Gems back, believing in his heart that things could return to normal if only he tried._

_The people drew conclusions once Thranduil’s disappearance had become public. Most agreed that he had died and had passed on his burdens to his son, and looked at him with pity. Legolas ignored them, turning his eyes, whenever they weren’t busy, to the forest. He unpacked his things and resigned from college. He picked up archery again and took to the woods as a ranger._

_He carried apple cores in his pockets, just in case, and with them, he carried his dreams._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone with the LOTR Complete Recordings for ROTK should listen to "The Eagles" when they want to write something even vaguely sad or poignant; it's been super helpful for these last two parts, so I figured I'd pass that information along.

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on [tumblr!](http://exacteyewriting.tumblr.com)


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